File 208
by Anonymous Lazy Cat
Summary: While walking in the sand wastes, you find a book. A strange book. A book about angels. This information is forbidden. But you read it anyways.


The sun is setting, casting a warm glow over the sand wastes. You take off your shoes, letting your bare feet sink into the sand. Warm, but not hot. Good. You curl your toes, enjoying the sensation. As you look out over the rolling dunes, shielding your eyes with one hand from the still-bright rays of evening light, you spot something sticking up out of the barren, golden landscape. The ground rolls and shifts under your weight as you pick up your shoes and walk towards the object.

It is a book, bound in red leather, half buried in the sand. The cover does not look worn or aged- in fact, the whole book looks strangely brand-new. But that's impossible. Who would leave a brand-new book out here, lying half-buried in the sand wastes? For that matter, who would leave an _old _book out here, lying half-buried in the sand wastes. It's a pity either way, to see such a lovely thing abandoned. You pick it up and grains of sand fall off like raindrops, making a shushing sound. On the cover is what you assume to be the title, written in silver:

_FILE 208: ANGELS _

Your heart leaps into your throat and you quickly look around to make sure you are alone. All information about the Tiered Heavens or the Hierarchy of Angels is strictly classified. No one must know about the structure of heaven and the angelic organizational chart, excepting those in a very small and select group of people.

You are not in that group.

You open the book anyways.

The inside paper is a crisp, clean white, and the ink looks so fresh that you are surprised it does not smear as you run your thumb across it. On the very first page is a drawing, so exquisite that it nearly takes your breath away and so detailed you half expect it to begin moving. It depicts a...a _being_, tall, smiling, holding a harp. Wings are sprouting from the being's back, so large that they cannot fit entirely in the drawing, instead ending abruptly as the page does. Under the drawing a caption reads _fig. 1: Erika. _A quick flip through the rest of the book shows that it contains many chapters, all written in small, neat handwriting. Nearly every page is graced with beautiful illustrations like the one you just saw. You realize suddenly that you could, right now, be holding in your hands a veritable treasure trove of forbidden information.

But is it all true, or just the scribblings of a madman? You do not know. You do not care. This is too good of an opportunity to ignore.

Eagerly, you keep reading, unable to tear your eyes away even as the sun sinks lower in the sky and the sand cools under your naked feet. You turn the pages faster and faster, as if someone may come up to you at any moment and snatch the book from your hands. But there is no one around. Not when you last checked, at least, and right now you see no reason to check again.

One section of the book, the first, tells about each and every ranking of angel, from Winged Supreme to Glorious Messenger all the way down to Newly Ascended. The pages are all, for some reason, bordered with drawings of bells of all types. Another section lists humans who are known to have been secretly chosen by Angels, for special angelic purposes. These pages are bordered with what looks like tiny salt shakers. You scan each accompanying picture, expecting to see people you recognize. Great leaders, maybe. Geniuses. Famous artists. Instead you are met with a parade of average, ordinary people with average, ordinary faces. The only familiar ones are towards the end- a drawing of Larry Leroy, out on the edge of town, and a young woman who you recognize but cannot immediately name. Vivian? Vithya? Yes, that was it. Vithya. You have often heard that she ascended into heaven, but did not see it yourself and always took it as an unsubstantiated rumor, of the sort typically passed around while talking over coffee or getting your hair cut. Perhaps you were wrong.

Off in the distance you hear the faint sound of whirring helicopter blades, but you ignore it. There are always helicopters flying around the sand wastes, and they are always looking for someone else. Not you. You are anonymous. Just a figure in the desert, holding a red leather-bound book of unknown origin and unknown reliability. There is no way the people in the helicopters could know who or where you are, none at all. This, you are sure of.

(You have been sure of many things in the past, and not all of them turned out to be true. Still, you keep reading.)

Towards the middle of the book there are two pages, right next to each other, that are burnt almost beyond recognition. Since the rest of the book is, as far as you can tell, in pristine condition, these two pages stand out like a hill on an otherwise flat horizon.

(A hill, not a mountain. Mountains aren't real. Mountains have never _been _real, and anyone who says otherwise is a _liar_.)

You can see that there were once words upon the page, but they've been made unreadable by ash and scorch marks. On the second page, though, is one clear phrase- the words "_tan jacket" _scrawled in large, hasty letters. This unsettles you, though you do not know why. Quickly, you move to the next chapter.

The helicopter buzz in the distance is no longer in the distance. You look up, still clutching the book tightly, and peer up into the darkening sky where a blue helicopter is circling . One time you remember hearing a man on the radio say that blue helicopters were perfectly safe, that they would protect you. The sight of them makes you nervous anyways. You suddenly realize that, by opening this book, you may have given up any protection once afforded to you. You suddenly realize that you may not, in fact, be as safely anonymous as you once thought. That this time, the _someone else _may be _you_.

You look back down and start reading again, even faster than before. The pages begin to blur together in your mind, but you don't slow down. You can't slow down. There isn't much time left. The blue helicopter is right above you now, creating a spinning wind which whips your hair about your shoulders. A spotlight is shone down upon you, so bright that, for a moment, you are blinded. In your surprise the book falls from your hands, landing half-buried in the golden sand.

An official document, or the scribblings of a madman? The people in the blue helicopter know. The people in the blue helicopter do not care. They will take you either way.


End file.
